The London Detective
by MyShipIsWeird
Summary: Molly Hooper had a rather secret passion; her spare time from St. Bart's was spent writing detective mystery stories. Set after "A Scandal in Belgravia", but with minimal spoilers. Sherlock/Molly hints, rated T for mild language. Check reviews for Author Notes.
1. Chapter 1

**Standard disclaimer applies. Just playing with these people for a while before I send them back to their own 'verse.**

**Prologue:**

Molly Hooper had a rather secret passion: detective mystery stories. One would think this passion to be painfully obvious considering her involvement with the world's only "Consulting Detective", but this was a secret even the illustrious Sherlock Holmes was not aware of. Although, when she was being honest with herself, he was somewhat the inspiration for it, and sometimes the curse of it as well.

His skill at deducing was what drove her to keep this passion as secret as she possibly could. Partly because she didn't want him to realize that she wasn't exactly over him, and partly because she just wanted to keep one part of her life, one part of herself private from his gaze.

She never brought novels with her to work of any sort, let alone these. Her striped tote was usually filled with a favorite medical text, or one she particularly needed at the time, a voice recorder, and two brightly colored notebooks: one green & one red. Out of a convenience of organization the green book contained results from chemical lab experiments while the red contained autopsy observations.

The mystery novels Molly so loved were kept at home, but not on any of her bookshelves. The shelves held medical texts, and more colored notebooks, a couple of classic novels, but nothing even remotely dealing with mysteries. The novels were kept in a trunk in her closet, along with a small stack of purple notebooks. One book was well worn: a translated copy of Gaston Leroux's _The Mystery of the Yellow Room_. The others, however were by a newer author, one "M.H. Lee" and had never been opened.

Molly didn't have to open them to know what was inside. She'd written them.

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

Molly had picked up the habit of color-coordinating her notebooks in med school, finding that it helped her organize her notes more easily. Some of her classmates teased and called her "OCD" but when it came to passing exams, her level of retention made her popular in study groups. She found that not only could she locate previous notes faster with her system, her level of retention had also increased to the point where sometimes she could almost picture exactly which notebook each fact had been stored in and then recall it as needed.

What she didn't excel in during her mid 20s was self-expression. Finding the right words had been somewhat of a chore for her and her earliest papers were downright dismal. She couldn't really afford another class, not with all the tuition she had out on loans already, but on the advice of a friend, she decided to take a "poor man's college" option and simply crashed the class on a daily basis. In any of her other classes this would simply not be allowed, but in "Pop Non-Fiction" the teacher overlooked her presence simply because students who came to his class willingly were somewhat rare. So the sight of one mousy-brown haired girl in the back of the class quietly scribbling in a purple notebook was politely ignored.

It was here that her talent with writing finally blossomed. There was no proof of course; any grades or marks she happened to see on essays handed back to her were completely unofficial and never recorded except in her own sense of self improvement. Yet, ever since that semester, she found her medical thesis papers changed drastically. She learned how to take even a dry term paper and, without ruining the content or information, make it flow, even interject humor a bit of humor at times.

Granted this talent had some exceptions - or at least one exception that she knew of. When it came to writing about a medical topic, or writing about something abstract she was fine. Yet when she had to write about herself, her talent would escape her. She tried, from time to time, to keep a journal, but it just couldn't access the same part of her mind. Invariably it just came out insecure and timid.

Now, after graduation, after completing her doctorate, she found that her pathology job at St. Bart's indeed paid the rent and her bills, but left little else behind. Granted it was better than her uni days, no more "noodle-only" menus in the dorm, but there were times when she wished she could have a more relaxed budget at least.

* * *

She got the idea from John's blog somewhat. His talent for talking about himself and his flatmate far exceeded her own ability to self-disclose. Her own attempt to mirror him had been rather humiliating in the long run, especially after she'd made the mistake of mentioning Sherlock by name.

Still, it gave her an idea, perhaps something she could try. What was the worst she'd face? Rejection? She was pretty use to that. Hell she faced it every time she tried talking to Sherlock. Surely no editor could ever cut her as deeply as one of his infamous deductions could.

So after work on day, she slipped into Tescos and purchased several purple notebooks. Normally she wouldn't reuse a color like this, but Molly hoped that it would help rekindle her writing talents and, at least in her mind, it was rather linked to the work she'd done in that one ungraded class. This time, however, instead of filling the first book with a "pop news" nonfiction story, she started to flesh out a murder.

She briefly considered borrowing tidbits from Sherlock's cases but decided that wasn't going to work. First of all, that would pretty much all be covered in John's blog anyway. Second - and perhaps more importantly - even if John's blog didn't exist, Sherlock would surly recognize his own cases. So the first murder she planned out was completely from her imagination.

She worked backwards of course, going from the identity of the culprit to the clues left behind, and what kind of evidence would be created by the event. For the first death she decided on a rather cunning hemlock poisoning case. The symptoms were masked by alcohol abuse in the victim, and thus the police were trying to figure out what had happened.

Molly's only nod to Sherlock was that the man who solved the case was a detective from London, and that he was somewhat acerbic and unattached. Although she really did want to make him tall and lean with dark hair, she drew the line at that and settled on making him shorter, only slightly lean, and rather ginger. He was not yet named, but he was at least a Detective Chief Inspector working in London. Until she'd worked out his name, she simply thought of him as "The London Detective".

It took a half year of work before she had a plausible plot worked out. The purple notebook filled with facts about the poison, about the alcohol abuse, about why the killer targeted the person, and how the detective unraveled the entire mystery. From there on she set about polishing the story, changing a word here or there and, most importantly, addressing the issue of any possible plot holes. The last step was to actually name her detective.

She considered using Sherlock's initials for him at first, but realized it might fool a casual reader, but not the Consulting Detective. Molly might as well put his name in neon lights if she did that. So she tossed a few random names around, consulted a couple of name-generators online and finally settled on Benjamin Night. It seemed simple enough, and she felt it could allude to his attitude of good vs evil, that in his mind things were black & white, like night and day.

After that she worked on her own writing name. Originally she considered using "Mol Lee" as a name but scratched that off rather quickly as being too silly. She tried Molly Cooper, Molly H Cooper, and similar names but still felt it wasn't right. As a bit of a lark she went back to Mol Lee and started again, and suddenly realized she didn't need a first name anyway. It was then that she settled on "M.H. Lee" and figured that would be good enough.

Then the real challenge began: getting the book published.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

Molly had thought the rejection would be easy to face, but found herself somewhat surprised. The first few letters saying, "Thank you for your interest but..." disappointed her but didn't dim her hope just yet. She carefully placed the letter in a box and went on to the next publisher, and the next. After two months it started to wear on her somewhat. Some letters were tossed into the box in anger, some only after being stained with wine and not a few tears as her dreams started to die.

Finally in desperation she decided to forgo the English publishers altogether and try her hand in the American market. It went a similar route as the British market had gone for another two months. Then one company had replied with actual interest. She had contacted them on a whim, thinking that "The Word Apiary" was an interesting company name, and perhaps being smaller than the other publishers they may be more receptive. From what she'd seen on the company, they had originally printed off periodicals on beekeeping, with several books as well, but in the last five years they'd started adding other works to their repertoire. First it was poetry from beekeepers, then short story collections, and finally full novels.

Their response was surprising still. They were indeed interested in expanding into mystery novels, but had one specific request for the story; it was a staple for all of their publications really. "Honey from the Printing Press" was a motto they took to heart and everything they published had to incorporate some aspect of beekeeping or at least honey. If she could somehow work that into the story they would gladly work out a contract with her.

Molly almost balked at that. She was neutral about bees at the best, neither overly loving them but did not shiver when they were near. The story was complete, could she really rewrite it to fit such an odd request? It would take at least a month or two longer, perhaps even more if it proved difficult.

Yet, she did want to be published. As odd as their request was, The Word Apiary had been the _only_ company that showed any interest in printing her novel. Who knows how long she'd have to wait if she turned this offer down. Maybe this could work. She spoke to the publisher and made arrangements to have a copy of the manuscript sent to him as soon as she could work the plot alterations out.

After some research she found that bees normally did not pollinate hemlock as she had hoped, but there was a flowering version called cicuta - water hemlock - that could do rather nicely for the story. She had to change quite a bit of the data around, struggling to make the plot holes as small as possible, but eventually she had a story that could work. The the killer had an indoor apiary with only cicuta for the bees to feed from, thus insuring the nectar would be poisonous. Training the bees to live off an unnatural food source had taken him years of work, but in the end it had paid off with sweet death for his target, one that couldn't be linked back to him... Or so he thought. In the plot revision, Detective Night was not a beekeeper, but was associated with a minor character that assisted with information that became critical to solving the case.

In subsequent sequels, she would of course have to find a way to link bees, honey, and beekeeping into the story. She wasn't sure how she would do that yet, but she wasn't going to worry over that. There'd be time enough to address that in the future. In the here and now, the only thing that mattered was getting this story off the ground; if that didn't happen then there would be no sequels to fret over.

* * *

Molly turned her phone back on at the baggage carousel and was soon greeted by a short list of missed messages and one missed call. The first message had come through at 11 at night. *Seriously who'd be texting me then? Oh, of course him*

_Molly, need to see James Frederick for a case. St. Bart's in 20. -SH_

_Molly? Where are you? It's for a case. - SH_

_Mols, what did he do this time? I think he's worried about you. And by worried I mean he's annoying the hell out of Lestrade and me. Sorry if this woke you up but please talk to him so we can sleep! - JW_

She rolled her eyes at that. She once joked with John that Sherlock could probably get any of the other pathologists to come in at odd hours for his experiments or cases if he was just polite to them, or at least refrained from calling them "idiots" and "morons" on a regular basis. Both of them knew, however that it would never happen. Sherlock was the way he was, and although most of the others would grudgingly tolerate letting him into the morgue or lab during the day, they would *never* get up in the middle of the night to do so. Molly was the only one with that kind of patience.

She rolled her eyes and went to listen to her voicemail. The timestamp appeared to be 1 in the morning. _That big of a case I guess,_ she thought as she pressed play.

"Molly?" Sherlocks deep voice always gave her a bit of a thrill of pleasure, especially when he was saying her name. This was the other reason she never failed to help him in the middle of the night. The morgue would be quiet and empty save for the two of them. Working with him alone, although frustrating at times, made her feel close to him. Not as close as she might like to be, but it was a connection that few others had. Even if it was just about lab results or noteworthy evidence from a cadaver, it was pleasant to listen to him as he worked, and even more pleasant when it was clear her own input was valued.

"Something's not right. Maybe we should try her apartment..." In the background she could hear both John and Greg try to talk sense into him and to wait until morning. "_Fine_, I'll give it another hour," he grunted and the voicemail ended.

Molly looked at her watch, hoping it wasn't too late. It was just past 9PM locally but back in London it was just after two. If she was lucky they hadn't set off to break into her apartment. Lestrade of course wouldn't abide by that, and John might protest, but she doubted either could stop Sherlock once he set his mind on it.

Her luggage was just appearing, somewhat in the middle of a long ling of baggage. She considered letting it circle around again as she attempted to call him back, but decided he could wait a minute more, and put her phone in her coat pocket. She had just lifted the luggage off the line and was walking towards the taxi exit when the sound of warm violin strings came from her pocket.

"Molly, where have you been?" For a moment Sherlock's voice was tense, almost a mix of anger and of worry. Before she could answer however he continued on. "Why are you in New York? I can hear the announcements in the background."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," she sighed. "Let John and Lestrade sleep already." She'd probably have to mollify them both when she got back, but getting them a little extra sleep now would likely encourage their good graces until then. "I won't be back until next week, so you'll have to make due with Drs. Williams or Smythe for now."

"Ugh. Morons!" Molly smirked at his comment. She didn't agree with him, both of the other doctors were good, but she knew they weren't as detailed as what he'd like. No one really was, which she found unusually amusing; Sherlock was just being Sherlock when he pouted about having to work with the others.

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry but this is my vacation. It's my Christmas gift to myself."

The moment she said it she regretted telling him the half-truth. His reply of, "I see," sounded a bit withdrawn. She had planned all along for that to be her excuse for the vacation, a Christmas gift to herself to explain why she was leaving the country for a week. Until she said it however, she hadn't realized that he might think it was because of his behavior, rather than being a vacation that would have happened anyway.

"I planned it out back in the fall. I figured it'd be the best time to get away for a bit, after everyone else was rested up from the holidays." He hadn't actually asked if that had been the reason, so she didn't clarify that it wasn't; she simply let the bright tone in her voice say it for her. "Tell you what, though, I know you don't like him but I can probably get Williams to come in on short notice."

Sherlock grunted, a little sound of annoyance and acceptance.

"And I'll convince him to stay quiet." He probably wouldn't want to talk to Sherlock anyway, but that was beside the point.

This time Sherlock used words, rumbling "Thank you, Molly. St. Bart's at 4." The line went silent.

Molly sighed. Perhaps she needed this vacation more than she'd realized. Of course it was primarily to finalize her contract negotiation with The Word Apiary, especially since they'd paid for the tickets. Still though, there were plenty of things she wanted to do in the city before she went back home.

She sent off a text to Williams. _Sorry to ask this Ryan, but SH is in serious case-mode. I'll bring back tons of your fav tea if you can get there by 4 to put up with him - MH_

By the time she'd hailed a cab and was headed to her hotel she had her reply. _Earl Grey Royale AND Lychee. Damn, he's a pain. -RW_

_Yes, yes he is,_ she thought. She didn't send that to Ryan though; instead she pulled a bit of an ace from her sleeve instead and messaged him with, _Don't talk to him; it'll make it easier. And I'll see if I can find that Ice Wine Tea too. - MH_

_Tea is my Kryptonite. Will do. - RW_

* * *

"Dr. Hooper, or should I say Ms. Lee?" The publisher smiled and shook her hand in greeting.

"Just 'Molly', Mr. Kelly." she offered warmly, greeting him back. He in turn invited her to call him Frank.

The offices of The Word Apiary were very fitting to the nature of the company. Although they were situated in a lower-rent business area of New York City, they clearly did not want to forget their origins. Almost something out of her story, she thought to herself. The main meeting room had a typical long desk and windows overlooking the city, as one might expect. However, to the right side of the room there was a glassed off area; an indoor greenhouse and apiary, teeming with murmuring bees. Through the glass windows she could see piping - both water for the plants and a separate set she was later told, to provide smoke to calm the bees. Although they did at times use the hand-held pumps for problem areas, having a full-coverage system installed came in handy when there were large groups of visitors.

She had visited a few aviaries in England while conducting her research, and had seen both outdoor and indoor setups, but never one at this size. Frank offered to give her a tour inside after their negotiations. He chuckled and mentioned that he and his business partner had once considered using it as leverage for contracts, but it was clear that it was a long-standing joke with the company.

To Molly though, the flowers and fresh light just beyond the glass, seemed more like having a meadow in the middle of a machine.

"That's what we were aiming for," Frank said. "Moving the publishing company to the city was the best way to expand, but we're meadow folk at heart."

The book negotiations went smoothly, for the most part. The manuscript for the first book had already been reviewed of course. She had sent them both a digital and a subsequent printed copy for them. They'd already discussed changes and suggestions via email and phone over the fall. Most of it was in effect, minor; they had a few corrections to her beekeeping sections, but nothing that affected the plot, except perhaps in removing some of the holes she hadn't realized were there. The title they loved exactly as she'd suggested it. "The London Detective: Sweet Death" not only suggested that there would be sequels, but clearly tied in the company's main focus, yet avoided spoilers.

The meeting was just to finalize the contract really. They weren't big enough to offer advances for future books; any money would come from a percentage of the sales, as well as a bonus for each new book. This fit her lifestyle immensely, as she didn't want to be in a position to spend through what she saw as "credit" and then end up struggling to find a way to earn the pay. They _did_ want to publish future detective stories, but weren't willing to commit until they saw the results of the sales of the first book. After that, they would consider having a contract for a new book every year and a half, to be revisited as need be.

At the conclusion of the meeting, and after Molly had spent some time inside the glassed apiary, Frank cleared his throat and said something she did not expect. "You know, Molly... I have a friend in London whom you might want to consider talking to. This book is likely to be right up his alley so to speak."

"How so?" she asked, a sudden chill or thrill - she wasn't sure which - running up her spine. Part of the contract was her anonymity. He wasn't entirely sure why she wanted to keep "Dr. Molly Hooper" and "M.H. Lee" separate from each other, but it wasn't that strange of a request. The strangest he'd confessed was from a Londoner who wanted to know if he had any data on how many stings it took to kill a two-hundred pound man.

It was this same Londoner that Frank was referring to. "Strange fellow, but interesting. If you're not completely against being anonymous perhaps I could give him your name. His own detective work was rather superb, even if he was a bit of an _ass_."

If Molly had not been sure at first, the comment about him being an ass, and the emphasis he placed on it, confirmed her suspicion. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Frank Kelly blinked. "Yes, quite so. I take it you know him?"

She nodded and said, "Oh yes, I've worked with him. I'd rather he not know that I'm the author. Is that a problem?"

His face split into a grin and his laugh filled the room. Bees behind the glass fluttered with the reverberations of his guffaws. "Oh, no problem. This will be more fun than you realize." His eyes almost twinkled with deviousness. "Did I mention how _much_ of an ass he was? Oh I'm going to love this!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

The first person Molly encountered when she came back to St. Bart's was Ryan Williams. He glared at her from sleep-deprived eyes until he saw the two bags she carried and his gaze softened into hopefullness.

"That bad?" she asked?

"You know it. I swear the only thing stopping me from making _him_ a permanent resident of the morgue was the promise of tea."

Molly handed him the branded bag of promised teas. From the second bag she pulled out a mug, saying, "Consider it 'combat pay.'"

"'_Tea is my Kryptonite'_..." He laughed at seeing his own words emblazoned on a mug. "Yes, yes it is. Get on to the lab, now, if you're brave enough. He's been making quite a mess in there." He rubbed his tired eyes. "I'm going to go home and pass out."

Molly wasn't she she wanted to know how big the mess was, but she'd have to face it eventually. Putting it off would likely only make it worse.

What she found was worse than she'd hoped for, but less than she'd feared. Over all it was what she'd come to consider as "Typical Sherlock Mess", although she never said that aloud. Except perhaps once to John, who laughed in agreement, and said that she should consider herself lucky that she didn't have to share an icebox with him. "Ugh. I'm not sure I want to know," she'd said and John had replied with, "You don't. You _really_ don't."

The mess though was devoid of people. No telling where he'd gone off to or even if he'd come back, or if he'd be towing his blogger-doctor or police investigator along. She paused at that, thinking to herself , _Does that make me his pathologist then? Heh. Oh dear God what is _that_ on the floor?_.

She donned a lab coat and gloves, and grabbed some rags before approaching the brown liquid. She sopped it up carefully and stowed the soiled cloths in thick hazmat bags - two bags just to be safe. Hopefully he'd be back before she disposed of it, but otherwise the staff down in the hazmat rooms could address whatever it was. Lab safety was one thing she did not compromise on.

After that was handled, she went to the experiments to study them for a moment. She didn't touch anything immediately; she evaluated it first to gauge what shouldn't be touched, what should be cleaned up, and what could possibly need her assistance.

Most of them were, unfortunately, beyond her experience. If she'd seen the entire procedure she'd have figured it out from observation, or from hearing him rattle on about it. Times like this though, when she came to them halfway through the test she had a harder time with them. Still, a few tests on the side were ones she'd worked with before and those she could complete for him, adding her own carefully printed notes to his scribbles.

Finally by late morning she was finished with what she called "Sherlock Damage Control" and her lab was somewhat back in order. She considering popping up to the lounge to get coffee, when coffee when she heard the lab doors crash open.

"Good God, that moron touched something!" He was back, and in a mood already. She flinched a bit, even knowing that it probably was not going to be directed at her. Now she knew why Ryan was so eager to leave. "I swear if he ruined... _Molly_!"

Sherlock's angry tone immediately switched to one of elation and pleasure, his eyes snapping to where she stood in the back. "How was New York?"

John followed in behind Sherlock and blinked for a moment or two, looking at his friend. Molly too, was a bit surprised at the sudden change of temper and the bit of small talk. "It was fine. I brought back some souvenirs for both of you and Mrs. Hud-"

"It can wait. Corpse in slot A-7. Since the experiments are thankfully _not_ ruined by incompetent hands, I can see if the poison used on the latest victim is the same as with the others."

_And... back to Normal-Sherlock,_ she said to herself, although not unkindly. She was use to his abruptness during cases, and even before her vacation he'd been a bit less caustic than before. On top of that she realized that, in his own roundabout way, he'd complimented her laboratory skills. Suggesting that her interactions with his work did not ruin it, was the equivalent of high praise from anyone else really. She realized that she preferred that over his previous attempts at flattery to get what he wanted. Molly knew it hadn't been false flattery - her hair for example really did look better parted to the side - but backwards compliments about her mind meant more to her than forced praises of her face or hair.

"Of course! Give me about ten minutes," she said cheerfully, and slipped out the door. She hummed to herself a bit as she worked in the cool morgue, arranging the paperwork for the unlucky soul.

She was just wheeling the body out when she heard Sherlock's voice close to her ear, almost a whisper of, "And Molly..." She resisted her body's impulse to shiver, but could feel her pulse jump as his breath brushed the nape of her neck. If she leaned back, she knew his lips would brush her skin, he was that close. She knew without looking that John hadn't yet followed him in. "Don't disappear like that again."

"I'll warn you next time," she replied, almost a whisper. She wasn't sure if this was his way of saying that he'd worried when he couldn't find her, or if he had just been frustrated when he couldn't get to the lab when he'd wanted. Knowing him, perhaps a little of both.

He nodded and turned to the corpse, as John was walking in. The quiet look left his face and turned bright, almost exuberant. "Ah-ha! Yes! Thought you could outwit me but no, again I have triumphed!"

Sherlock went on, going over everything that proved his theories, chattering at John. Molly smiled to herself and quietly made notes to add to the autopsy report. In a span of less than an hour he'd praised her and suggested that he could worry about her well being. She felt warm, as if honey fresh from the hive was bubbling over inside her.

* * *

The book was beautiful in Molly's hands. The cover jacket was a warm light brown and along the spine glittered an embossed bee and honeycomb - the publisher's trademark. The artist had improvised on his appearance a bit, adding a bit of short unruly curl that glinted like dark warm honey. Molly had approved it instantly, and promised herself that she'd be sure to include it in the text for the sequel.

That was perhaps the first inkling she'd had of her success. Along with the copy of the book, Frank had included a pre-contract, outlining some of the points they wanted to include for future books. She wouldn't have to travel to NY again, not yet at least, although he did prefer having final contract negotiations in person.

The money that was already appearing in her second bank account was, of course the second sign of her success. It wasn't a fortune, this being her first book, but it was indeed enough that she could seriously reconsider her financial plans. She might not pay off her debts overnight, but their end was coming closer into sight.

The third sign of her success came as a bit of a surprise.

She'd taken the tube downtown that morning, planning on a bit of shopping. Or as she called it in her own mind, "Celebrating what Benjamin Night has brought me". She'd already picked out a couple of new outfits that flattered her more than her work-clothes ever did, and was looking at the selections of a fancy cafe when she spotted John out of the corner of her eye.

_Oh, he looks... I'm not sure... upset? Happy? Both?_ she thought to herself. "John?" she asked, "Is everything alright?"

John looked up and his face relaxed, but only a little. "Hey, Mols." He sighed and shook his head but then laughed a little.. "Not sure really. I'm not sure if I want to strangle her or kiss her. Probably both, but I'm not sure in which order."

"What? _Who_?" Molly had seen him go through quite a few relationships, most of which usually ended soon after meeting his flatmate. "It must be serious."

"Yes, but not like that." He ran a hand through his hair and said, "He's thinking of putting bees on the roof."

Molly blinked at the change of topic. "Bees? Sherlock? What did Mrs. Hudson say?"

"Yes _bees_! She managed to convince him not to put them in the house. Some crazy theory the bloody idiot has. That's why I want to strangle her - not Mrs. Hudson though, but ... _Her_"

Molly paled a bit, having a sinking feeling of just what theory Sherlock was trying to test. John wasn't looking at her though; his eyes were fixed on a storefront across the street, so he didn't see the expression of dread on her face.

"Bees or not though, I'll have to kiss her too." He laughed again and this time spun around, happy. "It's been a week since his last case and he's been _silent_. An entire _week_! No yelling at crap telly, no shooting at the wall, or skewering pigs, just the sound of pages turning."

She followed his gaze then, and saw the bookstore he was looking at, a familiar honey-brown novel lining the front of the storefront.

"I don't know who this M.H. Lee is, but, apparently her _Sweet Death_ rated an 8!"

Molly was glad John's gaze was still fixed on the bookstore, for she wasn't sure she'd be able to explain the sudden fierce blush that filled her face. But even after the redness had faded from her face, the flutter of pride, like bees humming, still filled her heart.

She started plotting then, just what would happen to the London Detective next and smiled at the thought of the challenge.


End file.
